


Kings, Cats, and Catching Feelings

by phoenixyfriend



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: AgaMart Challenge Fic, Brain tumor, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Kink Mention, M/M, Medical Procedures, Multi, Nobody Dies, Polyamory Negotiations, Power Dynamics, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixyfriend/pseuds/phoenixyfriend
Summary: It takes something big for Agatha to evenconsidergiving Martellus a chance, but once she does...Well, after what he's done, she'll either have him on her terms, or not at all.





	Kings, Cats, and Catching Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Rarepair Challenge of the Month, hosted by @girlgeniusevents on tumblr, found here:  
https://girlgeniusevents.tumblr.com/post/186410820140/
> 
> Fairly relevant information: I run that blog. It's my challenge. I'm doing it anyway. I'm a little ashamed of how much time and effort I put into it.
> 
> _Anyway,_ enjoy.

It starts like this: Krosp complains about a headache.

Agatha takes note of that and offers him some water and a quiet place to sleep while the sparks do their thing. Lucrezia doesn’t really care about Krosp, so Agatha can do pretty much whatever when it comes to him without Lucrezia trying to interfere. Krosp complains about certain smells making it worse, and flinches away from the light, and Agatha recalls her own migraines and what set them off, and does her best to make things comfortable for him. She knows how bad it can be. She gets it.

It doesn’t help much.

They stick around England for ages, really. Martellus is tolerable, at best, but it’s enough for nobody to really try to kill him. Once Seffie wakes up, Agatha’s a little glad for that, because Princess Xerxsephnia is actually pretty sweet and cares very, very much for her older brother.

(She mentions this to Tarvek once, and he snorts out an undignified laugh.)

(“Right. Sweet.” He shakes his head. “And I’m useless.”)

(“I thought you said you were only pretending to—oh.”)

(Tarvek shrugs. “She’s better than most of the family, at least?”)

(Agatha knows that’s not a very high bar to pass, so she stays a little more on edge around Seffie after that.)

During all that time in England, Krosp’s headache doesn’t get better. Agatha theorizes that it’s the water pressure, or something in the air, but nothing she does _helps._ She gets Tarvek and Gil to help out, but they’re all busy, Gil most of all, and he’s the only one of them that’s got a solid background as a biological spark.

When Krosp passes out in the middle of a lecture on the politics of the Iberian Peninsula, Agatha bites the bullet.

She goes to Martellus.

“You apprenticed to Vapnoople,” she says, not even bothering with a greeting.

“…yes,” Martellus says, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why? Are you hoping for more information on what he might do in the other dimension, because—”

“You know how his constructs are made,” Agatha cuts him off. “Or at least his style, right? Common pitfalls and all that?”

Martellus puffs up his chest. “Of course! I was his number one apprentice before the Baron got him!”

“I’m not a biology Spark,” Agatha says. “Neither is Tarvek, and Gil is, but he’s so busy trying to get what’s left of the Empire under control that he can’t help. You… you’re a biology spark. A strong one, and one who knows Dimitri Vapnoople’s style better than anyone else, right?”

He’s back to looking wary. Smart man. “You could say that.”

“Krosp is sick,” Agatha says. “And it’s getting worse. He’s one of Vapnoople’s, so… if you can help, it would mean a lot to me.”

He blinks at her, silent for a few moments, and then says, “Tarvek told you how to phrase that, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

He throws his head back and laughs, and then gets to his feet in a way that has him towering over her. Her hands itch for a crowbar. “Well then! Let’s see what’s up with Master Dimitri’s greatest creation.”

o.o.o.o.o

Martellus speeds through her notes and Tarvek’s both, making notes of his own on a spare sheet of foolscap, and asking clarifying questions where they’d used unfamiliar shorthand or just scribbled enough to be illegible. It takes fifteen minutes, and then he’s going through the room and picking up what he can of materials with a frown.

“You’re good,” he says. “Better than you give yourself credit for, even better than many of the biology sparks you’ve met, but you’re right that you don’t have enough of the background to truly understand Krosp’s biology. I think I know what the problem is, but we’ll have to scan to be sure.”

“Already?” Tarvek asks dubiously.

“Yes,” Martellus says. “You scanned with an X-ray machine, but that doesn’t reveal everything, not with tissue and bone. Have either of you had experience with magnetic resonance imaging?”

“A lecture or two at TPU, but I never used one myself,” Agatha said.

“…with Anevka,” Tarvek says. “After… after the summoning throne.”

Martellus glances at him but doesn’t comment. Agatha doesn’t know if Martellus doesn’t know what happened to Tarvek’s sister, if he doesn’t care, or if he’s actually being kind in his own way by not touching on it. It probably doesn’t matter, because Tarvek looks relieved either way.

Krosp has been lying on the table and watching them since they started working. He hasn’t said a word. It’s not promising.

“Master Vapnoople was renowned for his ability to refine intelligence and loyalty in modified animal constructs without sacrificing most of the useful instincts that made them what they were. The ability to build human intelligence into a mind the size of a cat’s, for instance, is revolutionary.

“However, it comes with risks, always. A brain like the bears’ is at less risk, because it’s closer to a human size. The flesh of the brain is densely packed in Krosp’s head to give it the capacity for thought and memory that a non-Spark human might have. The neurons and cells are in higher counts despite the small space, and there was a lot of experimentation to cause that, which made these cells highly prone to mutations.”

“Oh,” Agatha says. She sees where this is going. She doesn’t like it.

“A tumor?” Tarvek asks.

Martellus nods. “It’s not something you tested for, but it _is_ a likely cause.”

“I’ve never done a brain surgery,” Agatha says, with growing dread.

“I have,” Tarvek says.

“As have I,” Martellus says. “Including on brains structured like this. I know what to look for, and Tarvek’s done enough fiddling with those toys of his that I know his hands are steady when it comes to the small and delicate things.”

Tarvek’s jaw clenches visibly, but he refrains from punching Martellus. Agatha isn’t sure she’d have had the same restraint.

“Look this over,” Martellus says, stepping back from the machine he’s pulled together and planting his hands on his hips.

“…why?” Tarvek asks, suspicion writ all over his face.

“What, you don’t trust your skills?” Agatha asks. She comes closer to look it over anyway. The craftsmanship is crude, but everything looks like it’s in the right place.

“It’s always better to have a second set of eyes,” Martellus says. “And, Lady Heterodyne, just as you are not a biology spark, I myself am not an engineering spark. I’d like to make sure it won’t do any undue damage.”

“It looks fine to me,” Agatha says, poking a few things. “Though…”

“Yes?”

“We might get a clearer image if we switch this out,” she says. “Tarvek, come take a look at these couplings for me?”

“Of course, Agatha.”

She ignores the poisonous looks the cousins exchange.

Tarvek helps her fiddle with the contraption, boosting efficiency and image clarity as best they can within the framework of the device. It takes maybe fifteen minutes, and they only pause to check a few details with Martellus a handful of times. He provides them with minimal boasting or complaining.

(It’s a miracle, according to Tarvek. Agatha rather agrees.)

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to go open up that designer pet shop in Paris?” Tarvek asks at one point.

“Don’t be absurd; nobody’s allowed in Paris anymore,” Martellus sniffs. “You’re sure you don’t want to do the boutique in Vienna?”

“After Zola’s taken it over?” Tarvek scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Am I missing something?” Agatha asks.

Tarvek and Martellus look at each other, and then back at Agatha.

“Trying to convince him to give up the throne,” Tarvek says.

“He’d really be happier that way,” Martellus says. “Less stabbing, more pretty clothes… and pretty men to put them on.”

“Tweedle, you little—Agatha, why are _you_ laughing?”

“Well, with how you’ve been kissing _me_, I’d imagine any interest you have in men isn’t going to stop you from liking me, which is what Martellus was probably going for with that, so… you know. Plan thwarted.”

“It wasn’t a _plan,” _Martellus grumbles lowly. He fiddles with something oddly similar to a seismograph. “It was a _jab_ at how he kept getting distracted when he _was_ still in Paris, and by Wulfenbach, no less.”

Agatha blinks. She turns to Tarvek. “Wait, you—”

“We’re not talking about this!” Tarvek squawks out. Agatha has to resist the urge to laugh at him again. “We are not going to say a word about this or I’m shoving that magnetic field generator down Tweedle’s throat!”

“As if you _could,” _Martellus snorts.

“Ahem,” Agatha coughs lightly into her fist. “Getting a little distracted, are we?”

They share another glare, but Tarvek sighs and nods. “I’d say the MRI is as good as it’s going to get in these circumstances.”

“Great,” Agatha says. She goes over to Krosp, who’s curled in on himself and isn’t opening his eyes to the light. She picks him up, cradling him in her arms and trying not to think about how he’s not even quite an adult yet, by cat standards.

He’s so small.

“Over here,” Martellus says, but his voice is soft in a way she hasn’t really heard him speak before. He’s got his hand on a sliding table meant to go into the machine, and Agatha lays Krosp down as gently as she can. Tarvek’s standing at the controls to the side, eyeing them nervously.

“You’re very close to him,” Martellus observes. His voice is still oddly quiet. It’s unnerving but Agatha’s not sure she _dislikes_ it, quite. “Many people wouldn’t treat him as well as you have. As a person.”

“I was _raised_ by constructs,” Agatha snaps. “And respect is earned by one’s actions, not by the nature of one’s creation.”

Martellus flinches at her pointed comment, but doesn’t back down. “I meant it well. The majority of my soldiers that perished against the furious corpse ghost of old Andronicus were constructs, men and wolves blended into one. I did not build their loyalty to me, I _earned_ it, and I mourned them when they passed, more than I’d have mourned any member of my family short of my sister.”

Agatha looks at him, suspicion as high as the heavens, and then turns to Tarvek.

Tarvek shrugs. “He’s always liked constructs more than people, if that’s what you’re asking. He _really_ loves his dogs.”

“I’m not _completely _heartless,” Martellus complains. “Why does everyone keep _acting_ like I am?”

“Because you’re terrible,” Agatha tells him. “Also the Touch of the King.”

“I _said_ I was sorry,” Martellus muttered. “And I clearly suffered consequences from that, too.”

“Doesn’t absolve you,” Agatha said. “At all.”

“Tarvek did worse things!”

“Yes, but I’ve been _learning,”_ Tarvek says, just a touch smug.

“Neither of you has the high ground,” Agatha asserts, annoyance seeping out of her. “Now, can we _please_ do the scan?”

Martellus makes a few more adjustments and then turns on the machine.

There’s a whirring noise, with pitches both high enough to be painful and low enough to thrum through her bones, and parts of the machine start rotating. Krosp’s claws unsheathe, probably from the agony the noise must be causing him, but he stays still until the scan is over. He burrows into Agatha’s chest when she picks him up, and she can feel her heart breaking.

“Over here,” Tarvek calls from the controls, and Agatha joins the Valois boys to look at the scan.

Martellus points it out first, though it’s not hard to spot. “Here. Near the base of the spine.”

“I see it,” Tarvek says.

“It looks like a chordoma,” Martellus says. “Low grade, mostly. It could be worse. They’re fairly rare, but they’re more common in constructs that are grown from pre-fetal stages or heavily altered during infancy or before. They originate from cells that are left over from early fetal development, mostly. Surgery is an option, though we’ll have to be careful.”

“It’s brain surgery,” Agatha says. “Of _course_ we’re going to have to be careful.”

“There’s nothing else it could be?” Tarvek prods. “Craniopharyngioma? Brain stem glioma? Optic—”

_“Yes_, there are other options,” Martellus cuts him off, looking more annoyed than anything. “There will have to be more tests. Plenty of tumors present themselves in this part of the brain. I’m just stating what I _think_ it is. In any case, it looks like we’ll be able to perform surgery to remove it, so we are going to _do_ that, then reevaluate to see what’s left and if it’s still causing trouble.”

“You’re sure that performing a surgery won’t make things worse?” Agatha asks.

“Sure? Of course not, it’s brain surgery,” Martellus says. “It’s a growing tumor. These things are inherently dangerous and a surgery is always risky. But I think it’s a risk worth taking, yes, if you want to help the little emperor.”

Agatha bites her lip, thinking, and then sighs and nods sharply. “Let’s get to planning.”

o.o.o.o.o

Gil shows up at one point and says he needs to borrow Tarvek. He looks tired and stressed and a little like he did back when his father was in his head, so Agatha barely protests losing Tarvek. Tarvek does, a little more, but mostly on the premise of not wanting to leave Agatha alone with someone she hates so much.

“He knows what not to do,” Agatha assures Tarvek. “Because if he _does_ do it, he’s going to deal with Jägers, you two, Zeetha, Violetta, and probably his little sister.”

“I’m not going to _do_ anything!” Martellus complains.

“Because you’re too clever to put yourself in everyone else’s path,” Gil says. “Sturmvoraus, let’s _go.”_

“Why do you even need me?” Tarvek asks, though he’s already rebuttoning his cuffs and pulling his jacket on.

Gil clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth. “It’s… it involves something you’d be interested in.”

Tarvek’s eyes flick to Martellus. “My family?”

“Somewhat,” Gil admits. “But it’s not something your entire family would _care_ about. I don’t think anyone would want to involve themselves _except_ you… and maybe Violetta, but I don’t know where she is.”

“Fine,” Tarvek says, with a dramatic sigh that Agatha can’t help but giggle at.

Gil sags in relief. “Thank you.”

“Hmph,” Tarvek makes a haughty little noise, but he doesn’t let his pride stop him from popping back to Agatha and taking her hand so he can plant a kiss on it. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Hopefully Krosp will be fine by the time you’re back,” Agatha says. “Though… you call that a kiss?”

Tarvek grins wide and presses his lips to hers, quick and fleeting but still a real, proper kiss, and Agatha can feel herself grinning as he pulled away.

“Hey, where’s mine?” Gil asks archly. He’s smiling, though, fond and tired and not nearly as angry with Tarvek for stealing a kiss as he could have been.

“Yes, Tarvek, where _is_ his?” Martellus mutters, low enough that it’s _probably_ not intended to be heard, but not quite low enough for them to not hear it anyway.

Then again, Martellus is notably good at many Smoke Knight tricks, so maybe it _isn’t_ an accident.

Tarvek’s face goes red.

“Excuse me?” Gil demands.

Martellus looks up from the papers he’s been crouched over and blinks blandly at them. He rolls his eyes and turns back to the desk. “Please.”

“You can’t just—”

“Figure it out,” Martellus says. He seems less than enthused about involving himself further. “You’re both sparks, act like it.”

Tarvek throws a knife at him and storms out. Martellus holds up a plank of wood to let the blade embed itself in his makeshift shield. Agatha isn’t sure where he got it from, or even if she wants to know.

She ignores him for the moment and rushes over to Gil. “Can you make sure he—”

“Of course,” Gil says. “And if I can’t, I’ll find Higgs to do it for me. They’ve been getting along pretty well…”

“Oh, yes,” Agatha says. “I suppose they have.”

Gil gives her a peck of his own and a quick squeeze of a hug, and then leaves.

Agatha waits until his footsteps have faded, and then whirls around and stomps over to Martellus. “What in blue fire was _that?”_

He sighs, utterly put upon, and turns to her. “You can’t seriously tell me you haven’t _noticed.”_

“Noticed _what? _That they _care about each other?”_ Agatha demands. “You had _no right_ to—”

“To _what?” _Martellus snaps back. “I’ve been listening to Tarvek agonize about this nonsense for _fifteen years, _and he _still_ hasn’t done anything about it.”

Agatha stares at him. “So what, you’re going to air his private business to—”

“The one person it matters to?” Martellus challenges her. “The one person it’s all about?”

Agatha stomps closer and pokes him in the chest. “It was _his_ decision to share, _not yours.”_

“He was never going to!” Martellus cries out, throwing his hands in the air and turning around. “For heaven’s sake, have you not been watching them these past two weeks? Every time it looks like Tarvek’s going to make even a smidgen of a move, he backs off, and Wulfenbach’s too oblivious to notice.”

“Doesn’t your sister want to marry Gil?” Agatha prods.

Martellus does finally look uncomfortable with that. “Well, if I’m lucky, Wulfenbach won’t be interested in men and you’ll end up with Tarvek, and Seffie and Wulfenbach can make something happen. But so long as that entire dynamic is in the air, I can’t imagine that going well at all. Better to get this taken care of before it’s a loose end that needs to be snipped.”

“Snipped?” Agatha asks, feeling the fury seep further into her voice.

Martellus gives her a look almost as tired as Gil’s. “You know what I mean. Don’t act dim, it doesn’t suit you.”

Agatha crosses her arms. “Explain what the point of that was, if not to embarrass Tarvek.”

“I just _did,” _Martellus protests.

Agatha stays where she is. Martellus groans.

“Listen, I’ve known Tarvek since he was born,” Martellus says. “Even behind the whole fop mask, it was easy to tell that he wasn’t… well, that he wasn’t _just_ interested in women, to put it bluntly. When he went to Castle Wulfenbach, he’d send back letters, just—all the time. Mostly to his sister, and Violetta, and Zulenna, but Seffie and I got some as well. We got along better back then, before old Aaronev went off the deep end and Tarvek and I started jostling for the throne.

“He _never_ shut up about Wulfenbach. We thought he was a Holzfaller back then, but the point stands that Tarvek was obsessed. They were best friends. They spent _all_ their time together. And when Tarvek got sent home, he was…”

“Heartbroken?” Agatha guesses.

“Not that he’d _admit_ it,” Martellus grumbles. “But yes. He was betrayed and angry and sad and confused, and he _stayed_ obsessed. We never said anything, because he was eight, but when Tarvek and Wulfenbach saw each other again in Paris, it all flared up again, and this time they were old enough that it was more than a little obvious the _nature_ of Tarvek’s obsession. And… he still did nothing. He convinced himself that it was anger or hatred or rivalry or something _stupid _like that, and they just kept arguing. Neither of them could ever back down, and when they thought the other wasn’t looking, they’d just… _stare._ Seffie was already starting to get interested in Wulfenbach back then, but Tarvek’s interest was enough that she backed off at the time, especially since we didn’t _know_ he was heir to the empire at the time, and Seffie was slated for political marriage.”

“And she’s happy with that?” Agatha asks.

Martellus shrugs. “We _all_ are. We’re Valois. Royalty. Politics is our _life…_ and the end of it, more often than not. Alliances are important.”

“But she still _wants_ him,” Agatha says. “And… listen, I don’t want to sound self-absorbed, but you’ve seen those statues Gil put up around Mechanicsburg, right? If she thinks she can beat me out for Gil, what’s stopping her from taking Tarvek out of the picture?”

Martellus snorts. “They were actually _friends_, you know. Similar age, similar interests, similar way of getting people to underestimate them. Until Uncle Aaronev went in so hard for the Other’s plans, Seffie was the closest of our family to Tarvek. Without Wulfenbach, _she_ was Tarvek’s best friend.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “So… family affection? _That’s_ your argument after everything you’ve all said about your family?”

“Seffie’s a sweetheart,” Martellus says. “You know, compared to the rest of us.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, let’s say your sister backs off of Gil. Let’s say Tarvek and Gil _actually_ care about each other the way you think they do. Romantically. What do _you _get out of it?”

Martellus opens his mouth. He closes it. He goes a little pink and turns abruptly away from her. “I don’t have to watch them circle around each other like skittish puppies anymore.”

“You don’t _have_ to watch them at all,” Agatha says. She turns and leans against the table, her rear to the edge and her arms finally coming down from her disapproving pose to help prop her up. “So really, what do you get out of it?”

Martellus looks up at her, outright glaring. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m trying to decide if I should sic some Jägers on you,” Agatha says flatly. “And Zeetha, maybe. I’m also trying to figure out what angle you’re playing in case it’s going to hurt them… or us.”

Martellus tips his head back and closes his eyes, throwing a hand over his face. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“No, you really won’t,” Martellus says. “Because you haven’t yet.”

_“Try me_,” Agatha hisses.

Martellus drops his hand, but keeps staring at the ceiling. “Despite my actions, I _do_ actually care if Tarvek is happy, you know.”

“…you’re right. I don’t believe you.”

“I told you,” Martellus mutters.

“Well you _did_ try to kill him,” Agatha says.

“We’re Valois,” Martellus deadpans. “It’s how we say hello.”

Agatha glares at him.

“You’re really not going to trust me unless I give you a reason that’s more self-serving than not, aren’t you?” Martellus asks.

“I’m not going to trust you, period.”

Martellus levers himself back up to a proper sitting position. “Fine. If Tarvek marries Wulfenbach instead of you, he’s less likely to have children that can inherit, and also less likely to be able to leverage the prophecy in his argument.”

“What if I marry both of them?” Agatha challenges.

Martellus makes a face. “Why would you _want_ to? They’d keep you up all night arguing about—wait, no, you’d argue right with them.”

“I would,” Agatha confirms.

“He’s also less likely to get the support of nobility if he’s _publicly_ interested in men instead of keeping it behind closed doors?” Martellus tries.

Agatha doesn’t let up her glare.

Martellus throws his hands in the air. “What do you _want_ from me? I just gave you four reasons, three of which should be self-serving enough to justify it.”

“You deliberately tried to humiliate him,” Agatha says. “And I’m not a fan of that.”

“That was _not_ the goal,” Martellus says.

“I don’t believe you.”

“So you’ve made _abundantly_ clear,” Martellus mutters. “Can we please get back to the tumor? I’m tired of arguing about Tarvek’s love life when that was the exact thing I was trying to _avoid_ hearing more about by saying what I did.”

Agatha keeps glaring at him for a few more seconds, and then snatches up a paper and heads for the other workstation.

She ignores the frustrated groan from behind her.

o.o.o.o.o

Tarvek excuses himself from the rest of the quest to save Krosp with an ill look on his face. Agatha looks to Gil and Higgs behind him, and even Trelawney, and nobody refutes it.

“How important is it?” Agatha asked softly.

“I’ll tell you as soon as you’re done with this,” Tarvek promised. He took her hands in his. “This is just… it’s big. For me. But it would distract you, and Krosp is more important. As much as I hate to admit it, Martellus is near the top of the field in this kind of thing. You can’t trust him with _your_ life, but you can probably trust him with Krosp’s, so… listen to him on that much. Ignore him on everything else.”

Agatha looks at Gil again, and then notices Seffie standing far back. She looks upset, and not in the jealous way that Agatha’s caught sight of a few times by now. This is something else.

“Should I ask?” Martellus pipes up from behind Agatha.

“Marigolds,” Seffie says, and Agatha turns to see Martellus staring, stricken.

“…really?” He asks, sounding almost—almost _hopeful._

“Yes,” Tarvek says. “Maybe. We’re working on it.”

“Anyone want to share with the class?” Agatha asks. It’s fine to be upset. She’s the only one in the room that doesn’t know what’s going on.

“She wasn’t supposed to tell _him,_ either,” Tarvek mutters. “I didn’t want to put this on either of your shoulders until you were done…”

“Trust us?” Gil asks, looking Agatha in the eyes. “Please.”

Agatha bites her bottom lip, and then nods decisively. “Fine. But I reserve the right to get upset with you if I decide it’s something you really _should_ have told me. Does Zeetha know?”

Gil blinks. “Uh… no.”

“Tell her,” Agatha says. “So far, she’s had the best grasp on what I should and shouldn’t know for my own good. Unless you think there’s a reason _she_ shouldn’t know?”

“No, we’ll do it,” Gil promises. He puts a hand on Tarvek’s shoulders and squeezes, pulling him towards the door. “Good luck with Krosp.”

“We don’t _need_ luck,” Martellus shoots back, from just close enough that Agatha has to stop herself from flinching away.

“Behave,” Seffie orders, frowning at him as hard as she can and pointing aggressively.

“I have been!”

“That’s not what Tarvek told me!”

“Princess,” Thorpe says, her hand to Seffie’s elbow. “You have other things to be doing.”

Seffie pouts, shoulders up near her ears and hands in fists, and then jabs a finger at her brother again. f“Don’t annoy the Lady Heterodyne!”

“I’m _trying!”_

Seffie sweeps out of the room. Trelawney follows her, and Higgs brings up the rear with a nod in Agatha’s direction.

She turns and brushes past Martellus to get back into the lab. She doesn’t cringe away from him, and she doesn’t let her heart skyrocket at the way she makes sure her arm touches his. It’s not necessary to keep them alive anymore. She still doesn’t want _him_ touching _her._

But he’s been behaving, or at least trying to, and she refuses to be scared of him.

o.o.o.o.o

Martellus hums when he works, sometimes. It’s not like Agatha’s own Heterodyning, not nearly, but it’s almost nice.

“What song is that?” she asks.

“Hm?” He jolts away from his papers. “Ah… The Prophecy of Europa, from Reichenbach’s Storm King opera.”

Agatha makes a face. “I’ve… heard of that one.”

“Grossly inaccurate,” Martellus agrees. “But it’s a wonderful piece of propaganda, and the songs are nice enough. The cast they had playing in Vienna was absolutely fantastic, too.”

Agatha bit her lip. “Violetta said something about you making little bears that sang?”

Martellus made a face. “I was thirteen.”

“Impressive for a thirteen-year-old,” Agatha said lightly. Her words hung in the air for a few moments, the silence as uncertain and as testing as her thoughts, and then Martellus cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said.

Hm.

“Were they constructs?” Agatha asked. “Flesh and bone?”

“Yes,” Martellus said. “I’ve always focused on animal constructs. They aren’t my only field, far from it, but they _are_ my preferred one.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing you agreed to help me with Krosp, then.”

“…I should think so,” Martellus said. His voice was as hesitant as one of his sparkhounds taking its first wobbly steps. “I—I’m glad to help.”

Agatha let it slide, and went back to her own work.

Martellus’s humming started back up a few seconds later, and while it distracted her more than the silence did, she didn’t quite mind.

o.o.o.o.o

Krosp weakly protests when they shave his head, but Martellus pinches lightly at the back of his neck and Krosp goes still.

“What did you do?” Agatha asks, not quite angry but entirely ready to be if necessary.

“You’ve never had a cat before, have you?” Martellus asks. “They have an instinct as kittens to go still and pliant if their mother picks them up by the scruff. Even after they grow out of kittenhood, however, the instinct remains. So if a cat is ever being a problem, this is a good way to still them for a little.”

Agatha nods slowly, and then comes over to help with the shaving. Martellus can’t do it one-handed, after all.

She feels bad about it, but a brain surgery is going to be impossible without access, and dangerous without clearing the skin of possibly dangerous particles and dander and dust, and that means getting rid of the fur.

“Sorry,” Agatha whispers as she finishes. “It’ll grow back.”

He shifts sluggishly, a slow blink and abated yawn, and Agatha sucks in a quick, tiny breath. She steps back and asks. “You’re sure we couldn’t wait for the sedatives to take effect first?”

“The longer someone’s under anesthesia of any kind, the more dangerous it is,” Martellus says. “I’m not going to endanger him further when he’s capable enough of reason to know it’s necessary.”

“I know that, I just…” Agatha looks down at Krosp and runs a thumb over his skin. “Would three minutes more have really been a risk?”

“At his size? Yes,” Martellus says. He pulls on the surgical gloves. “The smaller a construct, and the more modifications to their system, the more dangerous it is to estimate how much anesthetic is needed. Even a small change could be catastrophic.”

Agatha already knows that. She’s pretty sure that Martellus even _knows _she knows that.

It’s just hard to not want to make Krosp as comfortable as possible, because if this goes horribly, awfully wrong, she doesn’t want his last memories to be of her humiliating him.

Martellus’s movements aren’t as quick and as sure as Agatha would like, once they cut past the skin and bone and start to actually work on the brain, but they’re a fair bit more sure than Agatha’s, which is what really matters. She doesn’t sink into a fugue, her breath catching in her throat every time she threatens to do so, because she _can’t_ let Krosp die. She refuses to let it happen, and if that means she has to yank herself back from a fugue by the skin of her teeth, to focus on the tiny, tiny ball of flesh before her, to think about “how can I keep him from dying” more than “how can I figure out how to fit so much intelligence into such a small brain,” then so be it.

Krosp is putting his life in her hands. She can’t afford to make a mistake because she got caught up in the science of it all.

It’s a slow, careful task, and the beeping of the heart monitor is the only thing that keeps Agatha on an even keel when she sees how very, very still Krosp is. She lets Martellus give orders, though she does snap back the one time he treats her like a lowly minion instead of a partner who just doesn’t have the same specialty as he does. He course-corrects quickly enough, and she can’t afford to stay angry at him. There’s too much at stake.

They finish, having cut the tumor out as carefully as possible, and they set the bone back into place. Martellus has a special paste prepared to encourage the bone to heal, and they sew up the skin on top. There’s still blood matted in the parts of Krosp’s fur that they didn’t shave away, but they don’t want to wash it away and get the stitches wet this early. They wipe away what they can with damp cloths as Krosp slowly starts to wake up, and he yowls once he’s awake enough to do so.

He can’t do words, his mouth and tongue clumsy with what remains of the anesthetic, but he’s making more sounds than he was just hours ago, so Agatha counts that as a good thing. He tires back out quickly, though, and Martellus only touches her elbow to get her attention so she can administer a painkiller.

“You’re going to be fine,” Agatha whispers to Krosp as she carries him over to the cat bed they’d requisitioned for Krosp to recover in. “I’m doing to do everything I can. I even got _Tweedle _to help.”

She’s sure Martellus hears her, but he doesn’t say anything as Agatha puts Krosp in the cat bed.

She wants to stay with Krosp, to pet him and maybe sing something, like Lilith used to when Agatha was a child and too sick to get out of bed, but she has to clean up the surgery tools, and set up some monitoring devices, and talk to her friends about whatever the hell took Tarvek away, and—

“Stay,” Martellus says, and Agatha turns to look at him. He’s already moving the scalpels to the sterilization machine. “I’ll clean up.”

“I… thank you,” Agatha manages to say. “I’d have thought you’d call in a minion.”

Martellus shrugs, frowning at the tools in his hands. “Some things are more satisfying if you do them yourself.”

“I’ll set up some of the monitoring,” Agatha says. “And the drip.”

He nods, but she isn’t sure if he heard her. He seems… distracted.

She lets it go.

o.o.o.o.o

Agatha doesn’t see Gil or Tarvek for the rest of the day.

And then she doesn’t see them for a few more after that.

She tries to at least find out what’s going on.

“Nah,” Violetta says, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “If anyone’s going to tell you, it’s Tarvek. It’s not really anyone else’s secret to tell.”

Agatha feels her own pout and is a little embarrassed by it. Violetta pats her shoulder. “If it’s any consolation… it really is only tangential to you, compared to most things?”

Agatha blinks at her. “That doesn’t help at _all.”_

Violetta throws her hands up in to the air. “Well I don’t know what you want me to say! I don’t _have_ to listen to Tarvek anymore, but he’ll be upset if I tell you, and then _you’ll_ be upset because he is, and you’ll argue about trust and faith and family and _ugh_, there’s going to be so many _emotions_ and Tarvek’s going to give me grief about it for_ever_.”

Agatha giggles, hand over her mouth, and Violetta shoots her a grin.

“That better?” Violetta asks.

“A little,” Agatha sighs. “I just wish someone would _tell_ me already.”

“He will,” Violetta said. She bumps her shoulder into Agatha’s. “It’s just going to take some time. He’s already upset that so many people know as it is.”

o.o.o.o.o

“How’s he looking?” Agatha asks when she’s finally allowed back into the lab. Violetta and Zeetha and the Jägers have all been taking turns making sure Agatha gets enough food and sleep. Seffie’s been doing the same to Martellus, getting her Smoke Knight involved when she’s otherwise engaged. Neither of them are happy about it, but both Sparks can admit that they’re more likely to keep Krosp alive and healthy if they’re not sleep-deprived.

This means that they’ve been taking overlapping shifts to stay in the room with him, charging Rakethorn to keep an eye on the machines and immediately send for them if something goes wrong. Agatha insisted on leaving behind Violetta too, because… well, because as charming as Rakethorn _seems_, he isn’t actually someone she trusts.

She trusts _Martellus _more than Rakethorn, even though she likes him much, much less.

That’s… saying something.

Martellus has made it in before her, and was sketching something at a table, within easy earshot of Krosp and his monitors.

“Awake,” Martellus says shortly.

Agatha blinks at him, and then makes her way over to the cat bed.

_“Agatha,”_ Krosp rasps at her, voice scratchy with disuse and discomfort. “This is _awful.”_

“I know,” Agatha says, petting his head, right where they shaved it for the surgery. There’s a tiny bit of stubble now. She hopes it grows back properly soon.

“When is my _fur_ coming back?” Krosp whines.

“It’s growing back already,” Agatha tells him. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

He closes his eyes and pushes his head further into her hand, and her heart melts. She picks him up, ignoring the mild protest of how _undignified_ it is for a king like himself to be carried like a doll, and makes her way over to Martellus’s table.

“Are those winged wolves?” Agatha asks.

“Mm,” Martellus says in distraction, not quite a word so much as a general acknowledgement.

“How are you going to manage the shoulder muscles?” Agatha asks. “I know there’s some trouble with attaching a new set instead of reconfiguring the old, usually.”

“Working on it,” he grunts. He flips through a few pages and passes one to her. “Take a look.”

It’s mostly scribbles. Martellus’s handwriting isn’t quite a nightmare to decipher, but it’s not exactly easy either. He was clearly writing these for himself, in shorthand, and probably isn’t expecting her to care enough to read into the details of it.

“Airborne soldiers to back up the current wolves?” she asks.

“That’s the hope,” Martellus says. “But I’m not sure how well it’s going to work.”

“How’s that?” Agatha asks.

“Too big,” Krosp says, and Martellus looks at him for a moment before turning back to the papers with a frown.

“He’s right,” Martellus says.

“Airborne forces have to be agile,” Krosp says. “You can’t stay up in the air with too much weight, and you can’t have too much armor without weighing yourself down. With airships, they can stay far enough away while shooting that it’s not as much of a risk, but single fliers tend to be close combatants because single-person flight isn’t usually stable enough for long-distance battle unless you’re dropping bombs.”

“Oh,” Agatha says. “So… the wolves are by default close combatants. They don’t really use guns or anything. Swords at most, right?”

“Right,” Martellus says.

“Which means they can’t be distance fighters _anyway… _which means they’d best be in armor to protect themselves. Except… they weren’t in armor whenever they were in wolf form before, right?”

“They’re agile enough on the ground,” Martellus tells her. “But in the air, it’s a different story. There’s nothing solid enough to rebound off of so as to gain momentum or counteract inertia. They can dodge things and overwhelm opponents when they’re fighting _now_, but I fear that a winged squadron wouldn’t be able to do the same.”

“So you’d be able to make them fly, but they wouldn’t be useful in the air as battle forces?” Agatha asks for clarification.

“Quite,” Martellus says, nodding for a moment and then shaking his head violently. He crumples the paper he’s working on and tosses it into a wastebin. “Perhaps for another purpose, or simply find a training method where the flight is used for ambushes while being irrelevant to actual battle in person.”

Agatha watches him sketch for a few moments, listening as Martellus and Klaus exchange ideas on military tactics, and then hooks her ankle around a nearby chair and pulls it up next to Martellus. She takes a seat, ignoring how he stiffens up and how she rather wants to do the same, and places Krosp in her lap. “Let me take a look.”

He wordlessly passes the sheets he’s working on over, and when Agatha points to a set of muscles and asks about tendons, he keeps his answer even-toned and cautious. She tries again, poking at perceived problems harder and more insistently, watching as he slowly grows more animated as her questions gain depth and specificity, gestures grand and voice on the edge of a fugue, and she can nearly feel herself joining him.

It’s a heady sensation, to fugue with someone. She hasn’t done it often, but it’s almost impossible not to fall into one with this kind of meandering excitement, building from a conversation to a debate to an agreement to a dash for supplies. They don’t have any corpses, not really, but that’s _fine_ because Agatha is nothing if not a mechanic, and she can approximate bones and muscles and all the fiddly little bits to quite some detail, and a mechanical approximation is better than just lines on paper, isn’t it? She thinks so, anyway, and Martellus is willing to roll with it in light of the lack of actual flesh to cut and sew into the right shapes.

Krosp watches them the entire time, tail lashing from side to side, and on the few occasions Agatha pauses to check on him, there’s an intense look in his eyes that she can’t quite decipher. He’s fine, though! He’s fine and that’s all that matters, because Martellus just pointed out a potential option in crossing the muscles like the laces on a corset, and he says it probably won’t work but _wouldn’t it be interesting to try it anyway?_

She agrees.

She’s vaguely aware of Rakethorn stopping by for a moment, and overwhelming him with demands, Martellus just behind her, a hand to her shoulder making room for himself in a way that’s more _friendly_ and _excited_ than pushy and rude, and she’s too caught up in the furor of science to care, anyway. Rakethorn backs away with wide eyes and a smile fixed in a rictus of what may very well be fear, and she spins away as soon as he leaves to get the supplies because there’s _more work to do!_

When the doors open again, Agatha turns excitedly for the supplies Rakethorn has no doubt brought back, and then shrieks as she’s covered in icy water from head to toe.

“Back to yourself?” Zeetha asks wryly.

“You—you!” Agatha sputters. “What was that about?!”

“You’ve been in here for six hours and haven’t eaten,” Zeetha says.

“I’m almost surprised it worked…” Violetta muses, easing out from behind Zeetha. “But I suppose if it worked for Von Zinzer…”

“Lady Heterodyne?” Martellus’s voice booms out behind her, a wall of sound she doesn’t actually _like_ very much now that she’s not caught up in a fugue anymore, and Violetta is quick as a whip in dumping a bucket of water of _his_ head as well.

Martellus shrieks louder than Agatha did.

“Out,” Zeetha demands. “Food time. Is Krosp well enough to come with us?”

“Er, well, I _think_ so…” Agatha says. She shivers a little. “Do you have a towel?”

Violetta comes over, neatly avoiding Martellus’s angry swipe of a knife and carrying Krosp over her shoulders. “No, but we can get you one. Let’s head out.”

“You two go ahead,” Zeetha says to the Valois cousins. “I need to talk to Agatha for a moment.”

Violetta nods sharply. “Right. Meet you at the rooms.”

Zeetha waits until they’re out of earshot, and then turns to Agatha. “So, thinking clearly again?”

“You didn’t have to _knock me out of a fugue,”_ Agatha grumbles. She wrings out her hair. “Not like _that_, anyway.”

“I did,” Zeetha says, completely unaffected. “Because I’ve seen you fugue with pretty men before, Agatha, and with the last two, it only made you want to kiss them _more.”_

“That—!” Agatha protests. “That is _hardly_ what was going on!”

“You let him put his hand on your shoulder,” Zeetha says gently. “You wouldn’t have done that if you weren’t in a fugue.”

“I’m—I know how to control myself,” Agatha says. “And there’s _lots_ of things I won’t do unless I’m in a fugue.”

“Zumil…” Zeetha sighs, slinging an arm over Agatha’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to protect you from yourself. You hated him, and for good reason, and I don’t want to see you making a bad decision while you aren’t in a right state of mind.”

Agatha looks at the ground and lets Zeetha steer her towards the door. “I get it, kolee.”

“That said,” Zeetha continues, with a grin that speaks of nothing nice, “If you decide to make a bad decision while you _are_ in your right mind, I will fully support you.”

“Zeetha!”

The woman dances out of reach, outright cackling. “What? I’m just saying, he’s _very_ well-built. Lots of muscle on that one. Must be quite the ride, if you—”

_“Zeetha!”_

o.o.o.o.o

Agatha finally sees Tarvek again the next day, and he wordlessly hugs her and buries her face in her neck as soon as he sees her.

“What happened?” Agatha asks softly. He looks like hell. She raises her gaze to Gil. “What…”

“Sturmvoraus will fill you in,” Gil says, as tired as ever, but still looking a fair bit better than Tarvek. He sits on one of the couches in Agatha’s room. “How’s Krosp?”

“Doing well,” Agatha says. “Martellus is looking after him right now.”

Tarvek’s arms tighten around Agatha’s shoulders. Hesitantly, she pats him on the back and tries to edge her way over to the couch with Gil. She feels like she’s going to need to sit.

“Tarvek, _sit down,”_ Gil says, and surprisingly enough, Tarvek listens. Agatha sits lightly next to him, and puts her hand on his knee. She squeezes in an attempt at comfort.

“So, you remember how the Castle found one of your little clanks from Sturmhalten?” Gil asks, after it becomes clear that Tarvek isn’t going to say a word.

“Of course,” Agatha says. “There was an entire room of things from there.”

“Right,” Gil said. He ran a hand through his hair, not meeting her eyes. “I’ve been working on getting it sent back to Empire forces, since it was technically appropriated from Wulfenbach territory. Albia’s been… mostly agreeable on the subject, and we’ve been making trades and categorizing what we can. It’s part of why I kept needing Sturmvoraus; most of this stuff is supposed to be _his.”_

“Okay,” Agatha said. “So… one of the things England took from Sturmhalten was important to Tarvek, I’m guessing?”

Gil opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it as he looks at Tarvek. Gil looks incredibly sad for some reason, and he bumps his shoulder into Tarvek’s.

“Your secret to tell,” he murmurs, and Agatha feels her heart twist.

“They…” Tarvek croaks out, and then shakes his head, clears his throat, and tries again. “They took her.”

Agatha makes a noise to show she’s listening, to hopefully encourage Tarvek to explain just what he means by that.

“They took…” He breathes in deeply, and then spits the words out as fast as the lightning his family names themselves after. “They took Anevka’s head.”

Agatha processes the words, icy dread creeping through her. “Her… head?”

“The clank’s head,” Tarvek says, as if she hadn’t _guessed_ that. “The one with the imprint of Anevka’s mind, the one that _thought_ she was my _sister, _they found her and they _took_ her.”

“She’s been asleep for three years,” Gil adds quietly. “Tarvek’s been trying to build her a body that lets her have freedom without endangering anyone else. It’s not an easy job.”

Tarvek buries his face in his hands.

Agatha puts a hand on Tarvek’s back and rubs circles into it as her mind runs forward, forward, forward to figure it all out.

“What do marigolds have to do with it?” Agatha finally asks, the only question she can think of that’s relevant without, probably, hurting too much or being too aggressive.

“Anevka is a nickname,” Tarvek says, voice muffled by the pose he’s taken up. “Her given name is Nevena. It means marigold.”

“Ah,” Agatha says. She licks her lips, grasping for straws. “So—she and Martellus were close, then?”

Gil shoots her an odd look, and she shrugs defensively. “He seemed happy when Seffie told him.”

“As close as Seffie and I,” Tarvek says. He slumps sideways across Agatha’s lap. “I don’t—I still don’t know what to do.”

“I shouldn’t give you my opinion,” Agatha says softly. “I’m—she tried to kill me, and took my voice, and was going to torture me for fun until you stopped her. I can’t have an objective opinion, in light of that.”

Tarvek curls closer. “She’s my _sister,_ or—or as close as I have left, at any rate.”

“I know,” Agatha says helplessly.

“She’s a monster,” he continues.

“She is,” Gil agrees.

“I still love her.”

“…you do,” Agatha allows. She runs a hand over her hair. “I’m—this is your decision, Tarvek. I can’t help with it.”

“If I help her, I hurt you,” Tarvek says. “And if I avoid hurting you, she…”

“She’s your sister,” Agatha says. “I’ve never had a sibling, not really, since he died before I was born, but I know that siblings are close.”

“Yeah,” Gil jumps in. “I’ve never had a sister, but I remember how you used to talk about her, in Paris and when we were children. You were scared of her, but you also adored her. Of course you want to help her.”

“But…” Tarvek trails off, looking at Agatha again.

“But nothing,” Agatha says firmly. “This is _your_ decision. You want her back. If I hated everyone who’d tried to hurt me, I… well, I’d hate you, for one thing. But if I can tolerate Martellus, I can tolerate your sister.”

Tarvek sits up and wraps his arms around Agatha, burying his face in her hair and shuddering. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Agatha says. “She’s family. That doesn’t have to mean something, but this time it does. Just keep her away from me and we’re good.”

o.o.o.o.o

“I don’t understand why I have to take this,” Krosp spits, tensing up as Agatha pulls the needle from his skin.

“Because if we want to check on the health of your brain _without_ cutting your skull open again, we need to do an MRI, and as Martellus explained five times already, that means dye.” Agatha gestures at the machine. “Now get in.”

Krosp hisses at her, but lies down and lets her push him in. Agatha steps back and crosses her arms as the MRI comes to life. Krosp doesn’t so much as fidget as things start whirring, and Agatha relaxes as she confirms that he isn’t hurting as much this time. The sound is uncomfortable for him, but there isn’t any pain.

They finish the scan, and Agatha lets Krosp clamber his way onto her shoulders as she goes over to look at the results with Martellus.

“The scarring,” he says, pointing it out. It’s fairly obvious. “I think there’s some accelerated healing in the bone over here, so that’s probably good.”

“Probably?” Agatha asks. “Wait, no, that’s another tumor risk, right?”

“In effect,” Martellus says. “Accelerated healing tends to heighten cancer risks. We’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

“It… doesn’t, in Jägers,” Agatha says carefully. “If we examined them…?”

“If _you_ examined them,” Martellus says drily. “The last time I so much as joked about it, they threatened to tear my arms off.”

“When was that?” Krosp asks.

“I was fifteen and there were some visiting Wulfenbach forces,” Martellus says. “I’ve not made that mistake since.”

“But plenty of others, I’m sure,” Agatha mutters. “Krosp, how are you feeling?”

“I don’t like seeing the inside of my own head,” he hisses, though his eyes don’t leave the screen. With a careful jump, he gets on Martellus’s shoulders instead, taking advantage of the higher vantage point. “It’s unnatural.”

“So are you,” Martellus reminds him. “So are _all_ of us. Cancer _is_ natural, and so is influenza, and arsenic. Being _natural_ isn’t somehow inherently better or worse than anything else.”

“That’s almost sweet,” Agatha says. She elbows him, ignoring the thud of her heart and the hitch of Martellus’s own breath. “I can _almost_ enjoy your company like this.”

“Glad I could provide you with some entertainment,” Martellus grumbles.

Agatha smirks at him and pats her shoulder. “Krosp, come with me.”

There’s a short flash of white at the edge of her vision, and then there’s the full weight of a large, adolescent cat on her shoulder again. She heads to the examination table, where they can check the things that the MRI wouldn’t have told them.

Martellus doesn’t follow her immediately, but she bites back a grin when he scrambles to follow her. His footsteps are rushed and almost frantic until he’s caught up to her and fallen into her stride.

“Jealous that he likes me more?” Agatha asks lightly.

“I am _not_,” Martellus snaps.

“He’s lying,” Krosp sniffs. It’s almost dainty, if not for how he sneezes immediately afterward. “How could _anyone_ not want to be my favorite human?”

“You love her more than your creator?” Martellus asks, and then immediately shakes his head. “What am I saying, you kicked him into another _dimension_ for her sake.”

Krosp grins sharply, claws unsheathing for a brief moment. “Exactly.”

“Behave,” Agatha says, pointedly looking at both of them in turn so neither can assume that she’s only talking to the other. She plucks Krosp off of her shoulder and sets him down on a scale. “How much did you say we should estimate for fur?”

“About a tenth of his weight,” Martellus says. He pats Krosp’s head in a motion that turns into an ear rub, and grins in a way that Krosp visibly struggles to take offense to despite the petting. “Perhaps a little less, now.”

“Don’t tease him,” Agatha admonishes. “He’s _sensitive.”_

“I am your _king,”_ Krosp snaps. He purrs as Agatha scratches his neck.

“Of course you are,” she assures him.

“Does that make you a cat?” Martellus asks.

“If I were a cat, I’d be sleeping more,” Agatha snorts. “Here, hold this—yes, just like that.”

They fall into the rhythm of the work easily enough, voices quiet and teasing at Krosp as often as the opportunity presents itself, without truly hurting his feelings. Agatha teases Martellus as well, though she notices he isn’t returning the favor. She can guess why, considering how carefully he’s been stepping around her.

“You were right,” she says at one point.

“Of course I was,” he says, “But just to be clear, about what?”

She eyes him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s poking fun at himself or saying it seriously. His slight smile falls a fraction of an inch, and Agatha shakes her head. Self-awareness, then.

“We _do_ work well together,” she instead tells him. “Not that I’d want to do it often, mind, but we’re certainly clever enough to keep up with each other, and you’re very tolerable when you aren’t trying to have your way about everything.”

He flinches a little at the last part, but gathers himself and gamely says. “I’m glad you’re seeing it too, my Lady Heterodyne.”

“I’m not _your_ lady,” Agatha reminds him. “I’m not _your_ anything.”

“…right, of course. My apologies.”

“Accepted,” Agatha says. She reaches past him and grabs a wrench, her shoulder pressing to his chest, and her chest resting briefly against his arm. He stiffens, and she hears him inhale sharply. She keeps her face blank, as if she hasn’t noticed a thing, and stands back up, wrench in hand. She quirks a grin and a brow in Martellus’s direction, refusing to acknowledge that his face has gone as red as his hair, and he seems incapable of speech. She wiggles the wrench. “Back to work, Mister Would-Be-King.”

It takes a fair few minutes for him to actually start moving again.

o.o.o.o.o

“You did that on purpose,” Krosp yawns.

“And what of it?” Agatha asks.

“It’s not exactly a smart thing to do, is it?” Krosp asks. He rolls over on the couch to press himself up against her leg. “Playing with him like that.”

“I thought cats _liked_ to play with their food,” Agatha said.

“Food, yes. Mates… sometimes.” He looks at her through barely-open eyes. “But this is _politics_. He’s already made it clear that he wants you. Don’t make him want you _more_ unless you want him too, and intend to let him have at least a little.”

Agatha stares at the wall, thumb rubbing idly against the back of Krosp’s neck. _“Have_ me?”

“As a friend, a lover, whatever it is that humans would do,” Krosp says. “The other humans have made it clear that you’re very attractive by your species’ standards, and clever, so if someone’s interested because of any of that, you can tell them to back off and I’ll be behind you all the way. But that was _flirting_. Saw plenty of it in the circus. See plenty of it _now_, mostly between you and Wulfenbach and Sturmvoraus. And that would be fine in some circumstances, but you know he’s interested. You know he’s dangerous. You know how much of an object you are to people in politics right now. So I’m telling you, here and now, to be _careful_. If he’s fond of you, you can use that to your advantage. If he’s not, then… well, I don’t think he’ll try to destroy you out of pettiness or a broken heart, but he’ll take a harder stance on trade negotiations, and collaborative projects like what you’ve been doing with me, and his stance on that cousin of his that, need I remind you, you are _in love with.”_

Agatha flinches.

“So?” Krosp asks. He stretches in place. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t… know yet,” Agatha admits. “I’m testing the waters.”

“Oh?”

“He’s less annoying than he was. He’s taking my boundaries seriously. He’s a powerful spark and we work well together. He was actually _sweet_ with you, and with some of the other animal constructs I’ve see him with. His sister is delightful and _she’s_ loyal to him, so he’s probably a fair sight better than the rest of his family.” Agatha lists it off. “And he’s… not unattractive. Many women would be happy to marry him. I’m… marriage is too far ahead to think of, right now. I’ve got more important things to deal with, and… well, I’m still quite in love with Gil and Tarvek. And my attitude on Martellus is rather less intense. So I’m… well, I can’t say I’m entirely opposed to having him, but not at the expense of the two I’ve already _got_, so to speak, and… well, I’m not entirely interested in _him_ having _me. _I’m not interested in _anyone_ having me, not in a way that involves them considering me something to possess or control.”

Krosp’s tail flicks back once. Forward. He blinks.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you need to decide soon,” Krosp tells her. “Especially if you want to keep talking about it. Wulfenbach and Sturmvoraus are almost here.”

Agatha opens her mouth. With a snap, she closes it and shakes her head. Right. Okay. She can be reasonable about this.

She doesn’t bring it up.

o.o.o.o.o

When Agatha walks into the kitchen the next morning, she’s not expecting much. She loves her boys, she does, but they’re not sharing rooms, and of the three of them, Agatha’s really the only one who regularly cooks breakfast for herself. Tarvek’s experience in the kitchen isn’t exactly extensive, and Gil _can_ cook, but he usually just grabs whatever’s closest and gets right to work. Sometimes he’ll make an omelet, he’s told her, but usually it’s just not worth the effort.

She also has no real way of knowing if they’re even _awake_ right now, considering they’ve agreed to keep to separate rooms for the time being. It’s just… too much, right now. The world and the politics are too fragile for them to risk changing their own dynamic too much right now, and… and Agatha doesn’t want to risk that.

She enters to the sound of sizzling oil, the smell of eggs and bacon, and a faint haze in the air. As she steps further in, she spots them, and just barely hears the low murmur of their voices over the food.

“You don’t have to treat them like you’re making a poison,” Gil says. “Things don’t need to be exact.”

“I know how to cut an onion,” Tarvek mutters.

“You’re going to make yourself cry if you do it that way,” Gil sighs. “Here, let me…”

He wraps his arms around Tarvek’s and guides his hands through how to slice an onion without releasing too much of the stinging odor.

It’s completely unnecessary, but the flaring color in Tarvek’s cheeks is a sign that whatever Gil was going for, it’s definitely working.

Gil’s head comes forward enough that Agatha can barely see Tarvek, and he’s talking so low she can’t hear them. She’s not sure either of them has noticed her come in yet. She crosses her arms and props her hip against the counter, watching them. She can’t help but smile.

It’s much better than how they interacted when she first saw them in the same room, of course.

But it’s also almost—no, not almost. It’s sweet. Very sweet. She wants to have this moment painted and framed for posterity.

She puts a hand over her face to hide her smile, even if she’s sure nobody’s even seen her yet.

There’s a small shift, something too far away to see, and suddenly Tarvek is whirling on Gil with the knife in hand. Gil laughs and plucks it out of his hand, and steps forward to put it on the counter, crowding Tarvek back as he does so. Tarvek’s only half an inch shorter than Gil, and slimmer by only a scarce amount, but he still leans back as Gil comes closer, eyes wide behind his pince nez as he stares at Gil.

They pause. They stare.

Gil’s lips move, something soft and probably meant to incite _something, _which it clearly does, because a second later, Tarvek leaning up and flinging his arms around Gil’s neck, kissing him as deeply as he’s kissed Agatha herself, and Gil returns it with the same intensity.

She has to try very hard not to squeal in excitement.

Does this make them a more stable triangle? She thinks it does. She’s not sure. She doesn’t entirely care. They’re _happy_, and they’re not hiding the things she’d managed to ask Violetta about after Martellus’s crass comment, and she’s never been happier to see someone she likes kissing someone other than her.

They sway on the spot, the kiss deepening as they relax into each other, and Agatha wants to see it go on forever, but—

“Boys, the eggs are burning.”

They yelp and spring apart, staring at her in shock and embarrassment, and even Gil is blushing now, but she can’t wait for them to stop stammering and trying to explain what just happened to her.

She sweeps past them and tips the eggs out onto a plate. She puts the pan back on the stove and turns to them, hands on her hips and head tilted. “So… when did all of that happen?”

“You mean, um…” Gil gestures rapidly between himself and Tarvek. Tarvek smacks Gil’s hand out of the air after it comes a little too close to his face.

“The kissing? Yes,” Agatha says.

“A week ago,” Tarvek admits, fiddling with his pince nez. “You, er, we’re really not… um…”

“Not really what?” Agatha asks.

“We’re not planning to cut you out!” Gil almost shouts, then immediately looks a little ashamed of himself. “I mean, in case you were worried about that, which, no, you’re amazing, you’d never—oof!”

Tarvek removes his elbow from Gil’s ribs with a fixed smile.

Agatha puts a hand over her mouth again to try to stifle at least a few of the giggles. “I’m not worried.”

She presses a kiss to each of their lips and turns to the food. “So, did you want some help?”

“I don’t _need_ help,” Tarvek grumbles.

“We’ll be fine,” Gil assures her. “Meet you in the dining room?”

Agatha nods and goes to set the table.

o.o.o.o.o

Agatha wouldn’t quite call the food _amazing_, but it’s a passable first attempt at sunny-side up eggs from someone who’s never touched a spatula before, and she tells Tarvek this. He pouts, and she tells him that _she_ can help him next time.

“And I’ll hold you like Gil did before you tried to stab him,” she muses.

“I wasn’t trying to _stab_ him!” Tarvek protests. “It was a polite request for him to stop trying to irritate me!”

Gil snorts. “Polite. That’s what you call it.”

Tarvek sniffs daintily. “It wasn’t poisoned and I wasn’t trying very hard, so yes.”

Agatha lays her torso on the table, resting her chin on her arms and watching the boys bicker.

God, she loves them. She really does.

“You two are good with… sharing,” Agatha says carefully. “Or well, with not being the only ones in my life, right?”

They look at each other, and then at her. “You’re finally grabbing up Rakethorn?” Tarvek asks.

“Wait, what? No!”

“He _has_ been quite friendly,” Gil tries to comfort her.

“And shirtless,” Tarvek notes. _“Very_ shirtless.”

“No, absolutely not,” Agatha says.

“…not Wooster, I hope,” Gil says, looking a little worried. “You’ve seen how he looks at Trelawney, right? I don’t want to touch that with a ten foot pole.”

“Neither do I!”

“Zeetha?”

“She’s my _kolee_, no.”

“If it’s Violetta, then I’m not sharing a bed with you when she is,” Tarvek says. “Or Seffie.”

“It’s not any of the girls,” Agatha says.

“…one of the Jägers?” Tarvek hazards.

“Quite frankly, I have enough people worrying that _Gil_ is too old for me, let alone the Jägerkin,” Agatha says. She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll rethink it in a decade or two. Maybe.”

“You’re not _actually_ trying to build a harem like the Castle keeps suggesting, right?” Gil asks with worry. “Because if you have one or two people in mind, we can probably make it work, but an entire harem would be hard, and have implications of—there was a word my father used, um… unstable and generally unhealthy sexual an interpersonal power dynamics.”

“Big words,” Tarvek says under his breath.

“At least I actually know what ethics are,” Gil shoots back.

“Who else _could_ it be?” Tarvek asks Agatha, completely ignoring Gil’s comment. “It can’t be someone too new, so… is there a spark here that you knew back in Beetleburg? A former boyfriend?”

“I didn’t have a boyfriend in Beetleburg,” Agatha says. “Never had one at all until… until the circus.”

Tarvek has the sense to look uncomfortable at that. “Right. The circus.”

Gil looks between them. “The… one you were travelling with?”

“Yes,” Agatha says.

“Your father killed the boyfriend in question,” Tarvek says flatly. Bluntly. A little emptily. “Only because my family had completely destroyed any hope of salvaging the situation, of course, but still.”

“Can we not talk about it?” Agatha asks.

“Of course,” Gil says. “Er, I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Urk,” Tarvek says, which isn’t a word he’s saying, really, so much as an unfortunate noise that managed to work its way out of his throat while he wasn’t paying attention due to his own horrific realization. “Agatha, no.”

“No?” Gil asks, looking between them again. “No what?”

“Listen,” Agatha says, and then gives up because, really, there’s no excuse for this, is there?

_“Agatha, I trusted you,”_ Tarvek moans. “You have to have better taste then this.”

“Considering I’m in love with you two, a lot of people would say I _don’t,”_ Agatha points out. “Besides, I’m the Heterodyne. I can do whatever I want.”

“That doesn’t mean you _should!”_

“Do _what?”_ Gil demands. “Who are we _talking_ about?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Agatha says defensively.

“It’s _Tweedle!”_ Tarvek bursts out. “Agatha, please, listen to me. Even if you left me and Wulfenbach, you could do _so much better.”_

“I could,” Agatha admitted. “I mean… yeah.”

There really isn’t any defense.

“Didn’t he do the whole ‘Touch of the King’ thing to you?” Gil asks, face screwed up in confusion. “Did you forgive him for that? Wait, did he _do_ something to your head?!”

“No!” Agatha protested. “Ugh, no. He _did_ do the Touch of the King, but no, he didn’t do anything to my head. It’s just that we’ve been working together a lot, and we’re surprisingly good at it, and as hard it is to believe, he _can_ be sweet… and I won’t deny that it’s rather entertaining to mess with him.”

“Mess with him?” Gil asks.

“He turns almost as red as Tarvek does, when you tease him,” Agatha says. “And every time we so much as touch elbows, he gets flustered. Oh, he hides it well enough, but it’s… fun.”

She sits back, thinks for a moment, and then flushes a little herself. “And he seems to enjoy taking orders from me almost as much as I like giving them.”

Gil chokes on a piece of bacon. Tarvek makes a mortified noise and buries his face in his hands.

“I did _not_ need to know that about my cousin!” he shouts.

“I don’t know if it’s like _that…”_ Agatha hedges. “But…”

Tarvek moves to bury his face in Gil’s shoulder instead of his own hands, and muffles his scream in the fabric.

Agatha busies herself with her tea.

“So…” Gil says, scrambling to fill the silence. “You… want to add Martellus. To the group?”

“I don’t know,” Agatha says. “Maybe. I’m certainly keeping you two, if you’ll let me, but if Martellus is only willing to play if he’s the only one playing, then I’m keeping him off the field.”

“You wouldn’t expect _us_ to…” Gil tries to find the words, but can’t.

“To avoid picking fights with him? Yes. To do anything romantic with him? Absolutely not,” Agatha says, and shudders a little. “Especially considering he and Tarvek are _related.”_

Gil frowns, like he’s deep in thought about something that maybe doesn’t quite require it. “And… if one of us wanted to do the same thing, to see someone outside of our little triangle, you would… you would be fine with that?”

“Do you?” Tarvek asked incredulously, pulling back to stare at Gil in shock.

“No! I mean, not really, I just…” Gil gestures vaguely. “I just want to know if we’re all keeping the same limitations and boundaries.”

“I’m not going to have any control over your romantic activities,” Agatha says. “Or, I mean… no single nights, I think Zeetha called them ‘one-night stands.’ And if we want to see someone regularly, we sit down and talk it out like this with each other.”

“That works for me,” Gil says. “Tarvek?”

He shrugs. “I have no intentions of pursuing anyone else, but it does make sense.”

The silence that envelopes them is awkward and lingering.

“So…” Gil tries again. “You want to have _some_ kind of relationship with Martellus. You’re not sure what kind it is yet. Right?”

“Pretty much,” Agatha says. “I just know that I want it to be on _my_ terms, because as much as I think it would interesting to be with him in some way, I can’t forget that he _has_ tried to control me before, in a way that was honestly incredibly ethically compromised.”

Gil nods slowly, and then sighs. “Well, I can’t say I like _him,_ but I guess you’ve thought it through. I don’t think I could stop you if I tried.”

“You could,” Agatha says immediately. “I wouldn’t sacrifice what I have with you two for just anyone, you know. If you say you don’t want me pursuing this, I’ll hold off, because I don’t want to lose _you.”_

Gil can’t help but smile, and he slides forward to put his hands on hers across the table. “I love you. A lot. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Agatha says. “I love you, too. I also love Tarvek, and I’m a little worried about how quiet he’s been the last few minutes.”

Gil looks back and sits up again to poke Tarvek with a quizzical expression. Tarvek stays where he is and keeps doing what he’s doing, which in this case means staring at the ceiling with an expression of resigned horror.

“Oi, weasel,” Gil provokes him as best he can without crossing the line. It doesn’t work. “I’m going to rip up that dress you’re making for Violetta.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tarvek says dully. “She’d cry, and then you’d feel bad, and then I’d have to kill you for making my favorite relative sad.”

“Respond,” Gil prods. “I’m sure you heard what Agatha was saying.”

“I did,” Tarvek says, and then he drops his head and looks at Agatha. “For the record, I think this is a terrible idea.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware of that,” Agatha says. “It is, quite frankly, a terrible decision, and I’m ashamed that I’m making it.”

“Well, as long as you know…” Tarvek mutters. He sits up, shoulders back, and looks her in the eye. “If you decide to do this, I will support you, no matter how undeniably awful the decision is.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Agatha says, trying not to laugh. “Gil?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really have an opinion one way or the other. I don’t like Martellus, but you’ve made it pretty clear that you know what you’re doing. Go for it, and if he hurts you again and you don’t want to take care of the problem yourself, you have a lot of people you can come to for backup.”

“Including you?” Agatha asks, barely holding back that giggle.

Gil spreads his arms in a showman’s gesture and nods with false humility. “Including me.”

Agatha laughs fully at that, and then decides to screw propriety and just jumps the table to land in Gil’s lap and start kissing him as much as she can. Tarvek makes an affronted noise and joins her after a few seconds of complaining about the lack of decorum.

“Hypocrite,” Gil says, for one of the moments his mouth is free.

“I don’t care.”

o.o.o.o.o

Agatha gets to the lab early, Krosp on her shoulder and ready for another checkup. He’s complaining that he feels fine and this is getting to be a little much, and Agatha just rolls her eyes and tells him they just need to keep an eye on things. They’ll space the checkups out more as the risk of recurrence lessens.

She’s got almost everything set up by the time Martellus arrives, and has busied herself with brushing out Krosp’s fur and getting rid of some of the matting that is threatening to make an appearance. She brightens when the door opens, and puts Krosp up on the table to relax.

“Martellus!” she greets him, jogging forward. “Listen, I—”

“May I speak candidly with you?” He interrupts, and Agatha belatedly notices the way he won’t meet her gaze. There’s a tension in his brow and his fists are clenched low by his sides. His face is drawn and a little tired, and while he’s remembered to shave, there are at least two little nicks Agatha can see from where he wasn’t quite careful enough.

She steps back. “Alright.”

His jaw works for a moment, eyes flickering across the room the same way Violetta’s do when they’re someplace new and dangerous. He spots Krosp, hesitates, and shakes his head.

“I… believe you’ve been attempting to play off of the growing feelings I’ve had for you these past few weeks,” Martellus says. “The way you act, at times, seems to indicate that you either return those affections, or are feigning it for your own entertainment. I’m… given the way that I’ve hurt you before, and your own reminders to me on the subject, I’m inclined to believe the latter. I… I may deserve it, but I’d like to request that you… stop. My fondness and attraction to you may not ever be returned, and I understand and respect that, but to toy with them is painful and… as I said, I most likely deserve it, for what I’ve done, but you’ve proven yourself a kind person and I’m hoping you’ll deign to stop poking at the bruise, as it were.”

Agatha’s speechless.

Martellus still won’t meet her eyes.

Oh.

“I’d have avoided you instead of actually asking you to stop,” Martellus says stiffly. “But Seffie insisted I speak with you.”

“I’m…” Agatha says. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize it was hurting you, to do as I did.”

Martellus keeps looking at the wall. He doesn’t say anything. There’s something very vulnerable about him in this moment, and Agatha isn’t sure she likes it.

She hesitates.

Agatha steps forward and puts a hand on his chest. The other she brings up to his face, and turns his head to face her. There’s shame in his eyes. For which part, she’s not sure, but it’s there.

“You can’t have me,” Agatha says softly. _“Nobody_ can _have_ me. Not you, not Tarvek or Gil, not anyone. But…”

She gets on her toes, comes a little closer until they’re breathing the same air, looks into his eyes and notes that they are incongruously terrified.

“If you’re willing to share, I’d like to have _you,”_ she says. “If you’ll let me.”

His hands are large and warm and not even touching her, just hovering at her hips like his not sure if he’s allowed to put them there yet. It’s a great change from before. He wants her permission.

“Kiss me,” she orders, and he does.

It’s hot and heavy, and he may be cautious about it, but he’s so _big_ that it hardly matters. His lips are very warm on hers, and his hands are warm and solid on her hips, and she closes her eyes as she deepens it. She’s on her tiptoes, arms wrapped around his neck, clinging for dear life to get closer instead of letting her height hold her back.

He stumbles back against a table, and Agatha nearly growls because good heavens does she want to rip that fancy jacket off of him, ruin the fabric that cost a fortune with—

_“Ahem!”_

Agatha leaps back, breathing heavily and reminding herself that yes, she did bring Krosp in here, and he’s been here the whole time.

“You humans are ridiculous,” Krosp grouses. “Can we get this over with? And then I can leave and you can go back to doing whatever it is you were going to do there.”

“I’m—” Agatha stammers. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t _what?”_ Martellus asks. “You weren’t… serious?”

He sounds wounded. Drat.

“No, I was definitely serious!” Agatha protests. “I’m—I just haven’t gone very far with a boy, and it sounded rather a lot like Krosp was implying we’d… you know…”

She trailed off, well aware that, for once, she was the one that was flaming red in embarrassment.

“Right,” Martellus says. He puts a hand to the back of his head and doesn’t meet her eyes. He’s still breathing a little heavily too, and Agatha’s rather proud of that. “I mean—you said share, so I’m sure you won’t be leaving them, of course, but—”

“But I’ll keep you around, too,” Agatha says. She jabs a pointer finger at him. “But on my terms. The way we met leaves you on very thin ice, you hear? Ask permission first, for _anything_.”

“Understood,” he says, sounding rather faint. “And I’ll do most anything you ask of me…”

“You can say no,” Agatha says. “I’ll respect your ‘no,’ and you’ll respect mine, and everything will be fine.”

He licks his lips, staring at her like he can’t quite believe she’s there. “I promise, Lady Heterodyne.”

“Oh, you can call me ‘my Lady’ again, if you’d like,” Agatha says lightly. On a whim, she walks by him and trails a single finger across his chest just to hear him gasp. She smiles (Zeetha would be proud of her, for having him wrapped around her little finger like that), and goes over to start weighing Krosp again. “Come on, then. The faster we get this done, the faster we can get a little kissing done.”

Martellus follows her. “Yes, my Lady.”

Oh, that _does_ feel good to hear.

o.o.o.o.o

Unfortunately for Agatha’s stress levels, this is only a few hours before the news reaches them that the circus has gotten in touch and that, nearly three years ago, they’d successfully managed to bring Lars back to life.

He’s rather eager to see her.

It’s rather a lot to process.

But, well, the more the merrier, right?

(Zeetha won’t stop grinning at her, and Agatha’s starting to regret… well, almost everything.)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to purreve and firebirdeternal for cheerleading me through writing this, and Para for beta-reading it at the end!


End file.
